Characters

I once heard that only those who have departed this life were entitled to be considered as characters.
However , it would be unwise to consider someone who had not come to the end of his life , as a
character, and perhaps as a result had not realised all of his ambitions.

How does one go about analyzing what constitutes a character , or rather how does a character
develop? Is it something innate in the nature of the individual , or perhaps something to do with
family background, education or calling? Perhaps it may be something in his attitude, his speech , his
ygathdduIsn’t it strange that only the miser , the crank, the poacher, the drunk , or the man of ability
or unusual strength that demands to be a character, rather than the banker, the deacon , the
shopkeeper, the priest and all those respectable people that is backbone to the society?

Every individual has his own virtues and failings, and it’s not for the same reason that a character is
evident. Certainly the peculiarities of a character remain indelible in the memory , rather like a tattoo
on the arm of a sailor.

I’ve often thought that it would be a worthwhile task for me to write about some of the characters in
Denbigh in order to convey to posterity a picture of unusual people that walked our streets years ago.

I greatly respect those who can write humorously about this type of individual – Harry Parri possesses
an unusual skill in this field . One can derive much pleasure from reading the articles of Pernod and
Elfyn describing Llanrwst characters a hundred years ago – people like Capelulo, Abel Crwst, Robin
Busnes and Siôn Catrin. If you want to taste something more local , then Owen Evans, one of
Denbigh’s notables , has skillfully portrayed some of the locality’s characters during the 19th century in
the Cymru Coch – People like Llewelyn Bland, Charles y Blacin , Dafydd Cross Keys, John Lôn Bull,
Cantwr Mawr y Gogledd and Robert Owen y Nailer. But what about Denbigh’s characters in our own
time? While describing the shops and streets of the town , I mentioned people like Harold y Watch ,
Aneurin Evans y Twrnai, and Iesu Grist Bach – each one of them having painted part of our historical
canvas .

These are the salt of the earth who lend taste to our monotonous lives. Each one of them has been
called home, and are we not richer for having had the honour and pleasure of knowing them?

As Sir Thomas Parry - Williams wrote in his article ‘Bro’ , ‘ As our old acquaintances disappear one by
one; part of our old community disappears with them. But I warrant you that it won’t disappear
completely from my fanciful imagination until I too am compelled to go.’

79

David Owen Griffiths.

D.O came from a very endowed family – after all wasn’t his father the Reverend Robert Griffiths , an
ordained minister with the ‘Hen Gorff’, and editor of Y Faner. He had been a faithful life long member
of Capel Mawr, and he had great respect for the giants of the pulpit.

As far back as one can remember, D.O. Griffiths was clerk of the two magistrates chair in the Town –
the Bench for the Borough and the Bench for Is Aled. Although merchants, landlords and important
people of Dyffryn Clwyd were on the Bench , D.O was charge of them. His knowledge of legal detail
was unbelievable . He was blessed with an exceptionally good memory , and he was always very
confident with regards to his facts. No single case was ever brought to the High Court that succeeded
to overturn his judgement, even though he had no legal qualifications whatsoever. In court, his
sarcasm was scathing , and this would frighten many a witness and justice of the peace, not to
mention the poor accused. Even the most authoritative lawyers, Gruffydd Williams and Aneurin
Evans , had to bend to his will. Certainly the bite in the raspy voice with his Denbigh accent was
completely clear in his speech.

Without doubt , he was a miserly individual , and he could be very surly. He would call at the Liberal
Club daily to browse through the papers in the Reading Room. I remember being there once at the
same time as him ,and without being aware of it whistling under my breath . Without lifting his head ,
he said cuttingly , “ This is a reading room , not a whistling room .” For fear of my life , I dropped the
paper and disappeared into the shadows of the stairway.

Yes, he could be harshly critical of children and young people, even though they were innocent of any
offence. Also , he had contempt for anything that he considered sentimental and false in life. He
would never flatter you, and when he felt you were at fault , he would say so without any
reservations.

Another individual from the same period that was always ready to condemn the younger generation
was Robert Roberts the saddler , a deacon in Capel Mawr. During the Second World War, he would
stand during the evening behind one of the pillars under the Bylciau , making sure that young soldiers
, who were also members of the Chapel ,wouldn’t frequent the pubs on the High Street.

None of these characters allowed humour to play a prominent role in their lives – I never saw one or
the other smiling or laughing.

D.O. Griffiths never ventured into the world of matrimony ; indeed it is difficult to imagine him
dealing with the problems and responsibilities of married life.

Because of some lameness , D.O. ‘s gait was rather unsteady , almost staccato like . And sometimes
from a distance, the children would mimic him.

80
The elderly wouldn’t dare do this, lest in the future, they could be brought before the Bench. And
after all, wasn’t it D.O. who ran the court ?

Despite his lameness, his chief delight was walking the public footpaths around the town . And he ,
not withstanding anyone else , made sure that not one of them was closed.

He loved Denbigh with as much passion as anyone else. He was exceedingly proud of her notables and
traditions, and one of his biggest disappointments was the moving of the Sessions and the Quarterly
Sessions from the Town.

D.O. Griffiths’s choice was to live his life true to his convictions, and his religious beliefs together with
his keen principles provided a strong foundation for him to do that.

You will not see many like D.O. and Robert Sadler these days.

Solly Hyman

Solomon Hyman was the wealthy owner of a fruit and vegetable store, and his shop was located
where the Co-op stands today. S & H Hyman – the name still stands on the gable end of the building –
was the original title of the business , but sometime during the early 1930’s, there was a bitter quarrel
between Solly and his brother Harry, with the result that Harry had to pack his bags and return to
Manchester.

As the name suggests, he was of Jewish heritage , and of course that nation together with the Scots
and the Cardis have a reputation of being a little miserly. But contrary to that belief, old Solly was
exceedingly generous. Just before Christmas , he would visit every school in the town and would
distribute an apple and an orange to every child, without forgetting those that were absent . Many
times I heard about his generosity towards poor families , and he was also supportive of a number of
good causes.

He ran his business well , and each one of his workers was expected to obey his orders the first time.
And unquestionably , his yes meant yes, and his no meant no. With the front of his shop wide open ,
he was able to keep a hawk like eye on the business that transpired.

In the past, at about 10.00 in the morning, and following local custom, the owners and managers of
the shops on the High Street – people like Harri Cockles, Heber Marsden Davies of Dicks Shop, Price
Jones the grocer, and Powell Jones the Pump Shop – would stand authoritatively in front of their
shops greeting each other making little comments about the weather of the busyness of the Town.

81
Solly would take advantage of every opportunity to engage in conversation with anyone that went by
, be it a customer or not . He loved conversation and he could keep at it endlessly , and sometimes
tiring and unsettling the listener. Many of the inhabitants of Denbigh at that time were Welsh
speaking only , and it was a pure delight to see them struggling to continue the conversation .

He was seldom seen without a big fat cigar between his fingers , and shiny gold rings on almost every
finger. While smoking , he would look up and down the street as if he were evaluating who would be
the next one to corner.

I never did hear whether he was married or not , but he certainly never ran short of a partner.
Perhaps it was his wealth that was the attraction – not even his mother would consider him
handsome. The undeniable fact was that he was a short fat bellied man , and his Jewish nose
betraying his lineage almost immediately.

Nearly fifty years has gone by since Solly Hyman left Denbigh , but he is certainly a character that is
easily remembered.

Sgt Barnard

Everybody knew him as Sargent Barnard. I never did hear what his baptismal names were. Despite his
English surname, he was a Welshman and his English was rather awkward.

He was a huge man – a gigantic body, a broad forehead, and open face , not to mention the hands like
shovels and the size fourteen feet – one to compare with Goliath in the Old Testament I would say. He
had a keen watchful eye , an eye that would continue that way despite a little smile that would begin
to broaden across his face. On such an occasion , he would be a dangerous individual to cross .

From what I have heard about him , he was a very fair minded policeman – he had no axe to grind, nor
any desire for praise, honour or promotion. Barnard’s ambition was simply to keep things in order. He
could keep many a case out of the court by simply using his club , and there was enough metal in his
heart to dispense with a dozen hotheads on a Saturday night. Because his discipline was harsh and
iron like towards hooligans, it wouldn’t take long for those who were upsetting the peace of the
street to be sorted out and sent back to the safety of their homes.

There was iron and strength within his character , with a good measure of determination . He wasn’t a
man to argue with – the best way was to obey his commands. The sound of his voice and his totally
Welsh accent trumpeting along the Bylciau ,“ Home boys NOW ,” still raises some fear within me.

I can relate many stories about him , and the way he saved many a malcontent from appearing before
the court, but, “Silence is golden.”

82
With the passage of the years and unexpectedly quick , after he retired, the body that was once so
strong became entirely feeble , as if someone had turned off a tap and robbed him of his energy that
enabled him to be such a good old fashioned policeman. He died quite suddenly .

If he and others like him , particularly old Pugh the Policeman of Henllan were back on our streets
today , ‘law and order’ would be pretty apparent.

Elias Roberts

He was baptized as Elias Grosvenor Roberts , but he was known as Lei Grafn. His family maintained
that there was a family connection with the Grosvenors of Chester, but I never saw any evidence to
support this.

If Little Fat Twm was the wittiest, then Lei Grafn with his smile like the break of day was the dearest
of the children of men. He was blessed with plenty of endearing qualities , so much so that one could
count him as the most popular individual in Denbigh . He always spoke carefully and never lifted his
voice. He didn’t have an enemy in the world.

Despite his poverty and lack of education , he had the wisdom of Solomon. He was totally without
guile , and exceedingly kind , with the result that everybody including the local children, thought the
world of him. Even though he was quite an age, he could play happily with the children of the street
without being the subject of scorn.

Poor Lei never saw much of the luxuries of life, but he considered himself exceedingly wealthy . He
worked hard as a labourer throughout his long life and despite his small wage, he never complained.
He respectfully raised a large family , and his numberless descendants are all over the country.

I can see him this very minute in his tattered waistcoat , rib trousers and hob nail boots, and a ragged
greasy cap on the side of his head. A short stocky man with dapple grey hair and moustache , that’s
the man I knew , and that’s the picture that has stayed in the memory.

After reaching the promised age, and since he was a cousin to my grandfather, Lei came to the coal
yard to clean the stables, mend the harnesses and weigh coal for those who came there. Another
character that came there was Twm Sing , and he had very little patience. On one occasion , when
Twm came through the gates with the shire horses , Lei shouted at him ,“ Twm , the circus is coming
to Glas Meadows , and they’re looking for a good clown ,and I gave them your name!” The publisher
won’t allow me to say what was Twm’s response , but Lei was obliged to make a hasty retreat up the
street.

83
A glass or two of Copi’s beer was more than enough for Lei. I never remember him smoking but he did
love chewing tobacco. Do you know he could drown a horsefly from a distance with one spit of his
tobacco juice. Because I was so impressed with his skill, I went to nain’s kitchen once, and attempted
to spit in similar fashion to Lei . I’ll never forget the way nain scolded us.

He had more detailed knowledge about the old history of Henllan Street and its characters than any
other of his contemporaries. I sat by his feet many times, listening to the old stories, and it is more
than likely that Lei was responsible for planting within me the first seeds of interest in local history.

For me, the scholars , the wealthy , the snobs of Denbigh, no not one of them were worthy of untying
his shoelaces.

He directed his furrow in a straight path towards the headland without ever doing a bad turn to
anyone. The Grosvenor family should be exceedingly proud to share the same name.

John Hugh Rush

Without question, one of the most colourful characters in Denbigh during the 19th century was John
Hugh Rush. He was the son of Martin Rush, and he too was a bit of a character. The family lived in the
Stryt beside Tŷ Lojin, and the origin of the name Palaceade on the front door has always been a
complete mystery to me. Martin was the owner of a Knacker’s Yard in the neighbourhood of
Llanfairtalhaearn , and from there he would distribute skins and bones to the tanneries and glue
factories of the country. Horses were the chief interest of the old man , and when I was a boy I heard
a lot of talk about his famous racehorse Sweep. Hywel , another of the Rush family , was Sweep’s
trainer , and it was necessary to commission a professional jockey , one Captain Colchester to prepare
him for racing. Once, after he had won a bid race in Bangor On Dee, and everybody on Henllan Street
had backed him, he was escorted victoriously from the station through the town to his stable.

Towards the turn of the 20th century , and before he bought his first lorry , Martin Rush had been
completely dependent on his horses. It was a great disaster for him , as it was for anyone else in a
similar situation , to lose a horse. I have an old raffle ticket showing how the local community had
tried to raise money to buy a new horse for Martin Rush.

When Martin got his first lorry , he started a bus service between the town and the country, with
Meldrum , Prestatyn and Jones, Penffordd-Wen competing against him. Here , according to Iorwerth
Rogers, was the reaction of a local bard to the situation :

From Bylchau Rush came somehow

And Meldrum in his refined vehicle

The sons of Penffordd – Wen came too,

Walking is pretty useless for anyone.

Back to John Hugh. He chose not to follow in his father’s footsteps, and he chose to strike out on his
own with a business of cleaning windows, with Mary his wife helping him. In Denbigh , it was a
common sight to see John Hugh in front carrying a ladder, and Mary following on his heels with a pile
of buckets and rags. At that time , they were competing against the partnership of Thomas John and
Corporal Wynne, and sometimes , a heated debate would erupt between them.

That was an unforgettable day when John Hugh went to clean the huge window at Smithfield Garage.
Instead of resting the ladder against the window frame, he placed it against the glass, and as a
consequence , he completely smashed the window , and found himself lying on the bonnet of a
luxurious Daimler , the chief delight of its owner Bob Kerfoot Owen. I will let you the readers imagine
what the reaction of John Hugh and Bob Kerfoot was to this disastrous incident.

One winter, John Hugh was confined to his bed for some time, and his wife Mary had to put up with
the situation and do the work herself. One of the big problems of a window cleaner is securing a
supply of warm water, and since she lacked the persuasive powers of John Hugh to persuade the
customers to help her, she had to be satisfied with cold water. Within the hour, poor Mary’s hands
and arms were frozen blue, and she had to go to the infirmary for treatment.

John Hugh was a fairly small man. His most notable feature was his feet, set at ten minutes to two,
and his inability to pronounce the letter ‘r’ . Yes John would be “vunning up the stveet “ when Mary
was angry at him. His biggest problem was walking past the Hand and the Plough when his pockets
were full of earnings.

Once , he took into his head to run as a candidate in the local election for the town council. He
dressed himself up smartly and went down to Trefnant of all places to canvas. He was not elected !

His chief interests were playing billiards and snooker, and though he wasn’t one of the stars of the
local division , he could be a dangerous opponent. He learnt to play in the old Reading Room ( the
Language Centre today ) , and he joined the Labour Club Team.

Throughout the Second World War , John Hugh was in the Air Force, and for years he was the one who
carried the Air Force Banner on Mayoral Sundays and Armistice Day. He was exceedingly proud of his
responsibility in that office , and woe betide anyone who would mention an alternate for him.

85
To conclude, I should talk about my memories when I was living in the Street , and whilst in my bed on
Friday and Saturday nights , hearing at about 11.00 o’clock onwards , the sound of voices singing a
mixture of hymns, pop songs and old Welsh melodies . Most often , Dwfi Pritchard, Owen Spou or
Mary Rush were doing the singing, and indeed all three of them could sing. Dwfi , who was one two
crutches , could yodel very melodiously too, and hadn’t Owen Spou won a radio competition in the
1930’s for the most promising voice in North Wales?

No, to answer your question , John Hugh couldn’t sing a single note.

Harold the ‘Watch’ or Harold Tick Tock.

Originally , Harold Jones came from Mold, and boasted of the fact that when he was a baby , he sat on
Daniel Owen’s lap. In his teens, he was tied as an apprentice to a clockmaker, and that was his work
for the rest of his life. Even though he wasn’t as clever as the likes of Mr Joyce or Mr Keepfer, I believe
that he was a very competent clockmaker even though he knew no more about the work of a
gemologist than an owl knew about the sun. He opened a shop on Bridge Street in the 1920’s , and
despite the fact that he never did have a great business, he still succeeded in keeping his shop open
until he was in his eighties.

Harold was a bachelor , but he still had an eye for the ladies until the end of his long life. He admitted
that he had come close to the world of the ring many a time , but common sense , and concern for his
money had kept him back. He also admitted that he used to visit the local farms to check the clocks on
Tuesdays because the husbands were likely to be in the town fair that day. Very often , he could be
seen at about ten o’clock in the morning loitering outside his shop , eyeing the ladies on their way to
town. Sometimes he would venture a rather lewd comment, but it was a fairly easy matter for the
ladies of the upper end of town to scold him back into his shop.

Harold possessed a fine tenor voice, and there was always a warm welcome for him to join any choir
in the neighbourhood. He had detailed knowledge of his hymn book , and many an individual had
tested him but without getting the better of him. He loved community singing , and his early training
on the modulator had repaid him a hundredfold. Harold was a Calvinist from his upbringing , but he
attended the town Chapels as a listener rather than a member. He could move from Chapel to Chapel
and from denomination to denomination just like a wasp in a garden full of flowers. And this
depended on a) quality of the singing, b) eloquence of the preacher or c) that he would accept the
contract to look after the Chapel clock.

There was no one in Denbigh who could equal Harold’s skill as a narrator. He could talk like a
peppermill , and I never heard of anyone who would compare with him as a joke teller, and as others
like him, the story changed and grew as it was being repeated. He followed a popular custom of
singing or reciting what the audience wanted to hear , because his drink depended on the success of
his performance.
He was a short man , barely five feet in height . He always wore a tie and suede shoes trying to show
himself off as a real boy. I wonder if he was trying to emulate his brother , who was a chief reporter
with one of the big newspapers in London. Unfortunately his pants were very baggy , almost enough
for him to merit the title of ‘by the seat of his pants.’

He was very sensitive about his appearance, and each morning , he was Wil John the Barber’s first
customer, in order to have a shave and tidy his hair. Harold never understood that his secret of
colouring his hair was common knowledge. Sometimes after a rain shower, the orange colour would
run down his forehead . As he walked , he would roll a little from one side to the other , with a little
push step and a jump once in a while , as if he were trying to draw attention to himself.

The Plough , opposite his shop was his favourite tavern. But by all accounts, he would never
overdrink. Harold drank by the glass, and he was unwilling to stand his corner ( to buy a round ?) . And
yet, he had a big welcome in every tavern because of his readiness to lead the singing and entertain
the customers with his stories.

He shared the flat above the shop with his sister and brother in law. Mr Oakes taught the fiddle , even
though there wasn’t much calling for his service. Harold slept in the front room , and his bed sound
against the window. Because the street lamp hung by the wall of the shop, he could read through the
night without using electricity.

Certainly Harold brightened the lives of many Denbigh people, and everybody was fond of his
friendship because he was so cheerful and without malice. He could put a pin in the balloon of any
boaster or bully at that without enraging them.

Nobody could deny that he was a unique personality , and highly deserving to be listed with Twm
Bach Tew, Titch Myddleton , Cowboy Joe, Neg Bach, Twm Reili and Ted Gallimore.

Abel Roberts.

Another old character I’d like to draw attention to is Abel Roberts, Siop Bird Henllan Street, or Abel
the Crest as he was better known. He was a livestock carrier from the fair , while Mrs Roberts, sister of
the famous Joe Moores would look after the chandler shop. Even though he lacked the blessings of an
education , he succeeded in creating a very successful business, sufficient to employ a goodly number
of men, and to invest money in two rows of houses in the Stryt. He compelled his sons, each one large
muscular men to work hard – they seldom had the opportunity to relax even on a bank holiday.

87
When he was young , he lost his leg following a kick by a cow, and it’s certain that the inconvenience
of his artificial leg had bred a tension within him that made him one who could be easily upset. He
was a plain man with a biting tongue , and after he had tasted beer from the Hand on the day of the
Smithfield Fair, he could swear like a trooper. He always expressed his opinion explicitly , without any
reservations, whether it upset people or not. He wasn’t content to do anything unless it was done his
way – I never saw anyone so determined. Persuading him to do something contrary to his own wishes
would be like trying to move Denbigh Castle from its foundations one yard to the left.

He inherited a huge grand oaken dresser locally made , from his mother , the famous Betsi Crest (
sister to my great grandfather Morus Owen) , and one that was groaning under the weight of a pile of
pottery and brass decorations. When television was relatively new in this locality , he decided to saw
off the upper corner of the dresser to make room for the new tv. That’s the kind of person he was.

Even though all his acquaintances were familiar with the harsh voice , the fierce damning, the sly
provoking and the flash of bad temper, there was another side to him that came to light , completely
unexpectedly like a ray of sunshine behind a dark cloud.

I heard a story about him one Christmas , buying a complete pig from Dryhurst Roberts the butcher,
and presenting it ready for the oven to the inhabitants of Tŷ Lojin.

That’s the kind of place Henllan Street was like in the olden days – everyone concerned for his
neighbour.

R.J. Hughes or Bob Huws the Smith

He was a fairly short man , and he stood straight and square against the world’s problems. He had a
bald head encircled by a rim of black hair with a thick black moustache of the same colour on his
upper lip.

He was nurtured on the rich culture of the Hiraethog region , and in the Glasfryn near Cerrigydrudion ,
he spent his apprenticeship as a Smith . From there he came to Denbigh as a Smith to the asylum.

I heard many saying that there was nobody like him at sharpening the blade of a knife, and the quality
of the iron items that have survived are a true testimony to his skill as a craftsman.Dr Gwyn Thomas
has his anvil after carrying it all the way from Brynteg to his surgery.

88
R.J. created many incisive englynion , and in the National Eisteddfod in Denbigh 1939, only
apostrophe prevented him from winning the prize for the englyn.

This is how Gwilym R Jones combined his careful and poetic skills :

Harddwch o ganol parddu – ei efail

A lifodd I’n synnu;

Nyddais gof gynghanedd gu

A thôn cynion yn canu !

As Rodney Williams, Joe Stepiau , Tom Jones Haulage , and others testified in his Sunday school class
in the Capel Mawr, Bob Hughes was very knowledgeable in the Scriptures.He took particular interest
in the curriculum and he prepared his lessons thoroughly.

Despite his abilities, he was exceedingly humble . And for me his chief virtue was his simply country
courtesy. He had a nobility that was so much part of him – his was a quiet and sensitive disposition,
and gentle his ways, and so ready to recognize the virtues and successes of other people , even the
least endowed in our midst.

That’s how he lived his life, true to his family , his trade and religion , meek his ways and brave of
spirit.

Here’s part of Mathonwy Hughes tribute to him :

A rei lwch rhown Ffarwel Haf.

Hedd I’w fonedd addfwynaf.

John Roberts ( Jack the Rock )

If you were to choose a tug of war team to represent Denbigh, it would be very necessary for you to
choose Jack the Rock. So also people like Isac Ffoulkes, Llys Allen ; Bert Nash; Dei Wheway Davies; Elis
Williams, Brifi Lôn; John Morris Owen ( my grandfather ) ; Ifan Fawr ( Deu Cockney’s grandfather ) and
Bob y Trawr ( W.T. Williams’s Grandfather , past clerk of the town).

John Roberts was an exceedingly big man – a broad square body , broad neck, and legs like tree
trunks, with arms somewhat similar. This underlined the fact that he had spent years labouring as a
lumberjack on the plains of Canada. As well, he had a voice like Joshua’s horn , a determined chin and
a presence enough to suffocate you.

89
He loved the open air rather than attending meetings , even though he was a loyal and hard working
member of the committee of the old Liberal Club. There he spent a little of his leisure time playing
billiards and chess. I shall never forget the occasion when he leant over the shoulders of Bob
Rowlands Plas Meifiod, the county councillor in order to get a better look at the draughts board , and
accidentaly moved his false hair over his brows. A tense situation developed between the two of
them , and only the skills of Elwy Owen as a peacemaker , saved the occasion.

He was a man of fairly mixed temper , as any trespasser on the land of the Graig would testify. He
tended to be merciless and he was severe of judgement and punishment of transgressors. But to his
friends and acquaintances, he showed himself to be a true friend. He always believed in speaking his
mind clearly and he hated with a passion flattering words.

Farming the Graig was his life , and he gathered about him a very capable crew to help him – his wife
Mrs Roberts , her house spotless at all times; Harri Jones the bailey; Otto the farm hand ( a German
prisoner of war ) and of course Margaret the maid ( Mrs Dennis Jones ) with her lovely voice singing
merrily as she attended the dairy.

He didn’t have any children , but during the war Dewi, a nephew to Mr and Mrs Roberts came to stay
with them from Llandegla , so that he could attend the County School in Denbigh. One dreadful lunch
time , at the request of his auntie, Dewi went on his bicycle on an errand to Addie’s shop on Post
Office Lane . As he went past the gate at Cae Fron , the bicycle went out of control and as a result he
was thrown headfirst against the wall and killed. This tragedy was a bitter blow to the two . Poor Jack
cultivated a kind of hard shell to protect himself , and he was never the same again.

John William Jones.

John William Jones was his baptismal name , but it was as Tip Toe that everybody knew him. I’ve no
idea how he came by such a name – and an explanation would be most acceptable.

He was an assistant teacher at the Love Lane and Fron Goch Schools . He was more afraid of a visit
from the school superintendent than anything, and a number of malicious teachers teased him
without mercy by telling him , “they are in the neighbourhood.”

He was a doubter by nature, and his first response to any situation was to question it. He believed
that everybody and everything were set against him , and he was unbelievably sensitive towards little
things.

Strangely enough , and contrary to what one would expect, he had a temper that would frequently
break to the surface , but perhaps it was more noise than substance. He had terrible trouble
disciplining children , and his reaction on occasion was to chew pencils to shreds and break rulers in
pieces.

90
Another of his fears was catching a cold . I heard about him one frosty morning teaching physical
education – the children were out in their shorts , and he was in the classroom , a trilby hat on his
head , gloves on his hands, scarf about his neck and a top coat about his substantial body , shouting
orders through the open window.

Sometimes , a pull of determination almost bordering on stubbornness came to the fore, and indeed
he was very difficult to deal with at that time.

Even so, a more positive attitude would appear on occasion , and he could be a conscientious
committee member. He made substantial contributions to National Savings meetings and also the
National Union of Teachers.

He took his responsibilities as an ARP Warden during the War very seriously , and fortunately he
wasn’t called upon to do anything that was very dangerous.

On the whole, he was unwilling – perhaps incapable – to socialise with his fellow citizens. Was it a lack
of confidence that caused this , or maybe perhaps he was suffering from melancholy.

Strangely perhaps, even though he has been in his grave for years, there are hundreds of Denbigh
inhabitants who are familiar with the name Tip Toe.

Temple Williams.

Everyone in Denbigh knew that he was extremely thrifty, and that as a result he had accumulated a
substantial sum of money. According to the Daily Express, when he was taken to the hospital , there
wasn’t a single piece of coal , or supply of water or electricity in the house. His custom was to call at
Fron Shop opposite his house , to beg an old loaf and a bottle of water. He never spent a halfpenny
there , and when the police broke in to his house, they discovered large sums of money in rusty cans.

The skin of his face and hands was similar to the colour of an old carpet , and the common belief was
that he only washed on New Year’s Eve. I never saw such finger nails in my life – an inch long at least
and a teaspoon full of dirt under each one!

Even though he lived a hermit like life, he had a keen interest in people – whether they were alive or
dead. He would never miss a funeral , even though he had to thumb ? his way to the local chapels and
churches. Most often , Temple would be the first to receive a meal after the service . On the occasion
of a death , he would be certain to send memorial verses or englynion to the Faner or the Cymro , in
the hope of receiving financial remuneration for doing so.

He was exceedingly supportive of the needs of Capel y Fron , and he was well versed in the Scriptures.
Do you remember the Christmas when his elderly mother presented a thousand pounds to the
Chapel? A few days later, and according to his custom , he went to one of the town’s businessmen and
asked for a New Year’s Gift.

91
He received a rather surly reply – “ Go and ask your mother for a b…… new year’s gift.”

As he grew older, his body which was at one time very sturdy , became weak and bent over his
walking stick.

To completely fair with extremely odd character, I should give you a little insight on his early life.

In his teenage years, he went to Allensons ‘ large store in Birkenhead to be instructed as a manager. I
understand at that time he was a tall , handsome and tidy young man. In 1916, Temple Rumsey
Williams enlisted as a private in the Liverpool 20th Company of the Royal Regiment , and early on he
found himself in the hell of the Battle of Maricourt in France. There he was very badly wounded in his
right leg , and the leg had to be amputated there and then. As a result, he wasn’t able to return to his
position, and with his puny pension and without hope of being employed anywhere , he returned to
Denbigh. No wonder he turned his back on the capitalistic and militaristic world and become a miser.

Dr. Thomas.

It’s possible that you have read Dr Thomas – how then in the face of numerous and deserving tributes
can I have the opportunity to find something else to say about him.

As Gwilym R. said, “ It is no ordinary thing being a person who is a combination of a poet and a
doctor. But poet doctors who are also original characters is a rare thing.

And without question , the old doctor was a character.

He wasn’t an easy person to get close to unless you knew him very well, and even though the span of
his acquaintances was very broad, only the chosen ones could gain access to his circle of friends –
people like J. Glyn Davies , the brother of George Maitland Davies the pacifist . J. S Williams ( Jac Sam )
his fellow fisherman , Emrys Cleaver and Doctor Gwilym Parri Huws.

He won his platform as a poet – his winning entry in memory of T. Rowland Hughes at the Llanrwst
Eisteddfod 1951 is a testimony to that – but the bardic memory I have of him is the toilet in Bron y
Ffynnon, and the walls and doors plastered with his englynion and couplets.

Because I was a school friend to Gwyn ( and continuing to be so to our great surprise ) I would visit
Bron y Ffynnon often . I was therefore fully familiar with the fact that the doctor didn’t have his
breakfast until 11 o’clock in the morning even though his surgery by then was full to the brim. Of
course he had been visiting his patients until the early hours of the morning, and therefore it was not
surprising that the Rev Robert Owen begged him to frequent the surgery in Llansannan a little earlier.

“Rhag eich siom, Doctor Tomos,

Dowch , yn wir, cyn duwch nos.”

92
I remember clearly one night when I happened to be sleeping there, being woken suddenly – the
strong light of a lamp blinding me and a vice like hand on my shoulder, “ Who are you – what are you
doing here?” It was the old man who had just arrived home from his humanitarian wanderings . While
I was trembling like a chick in a fist, I made my level best to explain that I was keeping company with
Gwyn , and that it was not the first time I had been there. And Gwyn who was in the next bed was as
much shocked as I was.

On the wall above the bed, and neatly framed hung the Military Cross awarded to 2nd Lt. John
Gruffydd Thomas , Machine Gun Corps, for his bravery in France in 1918. There was only one other MC
in Denbigh – the one awarded to W.A. Evans headmaster of the County School.

Doctor Thomas hated all forms of false pretence , and I believe that nobody ever pulled the wool over
his eyes. As far as important things were concerned , he was exact and thoughtful , and his keen eye
seeing far more than the ordinary person. Do you remember how he would look over the rim of his
spectacles with his head on one side like a little wren? Gwyn wouldn’t dare steal one of his woodbines
– he knew exactly how many there were in the packet.

He was a Calvinist according to his upbringing and his religious beliefs , even though he didn’t go
regularly to the services in Capel Mawr. Did you hear about him receiving the yearly report from the
Chapel , and hearing that he hadn’t contributed a single penny ? He returned the report to the
secretary with the words, “ Examined and found to be correct. “ written across the empty space. He
wasn’t one to wear his religion on his sleeve . He hated puritanism , but delighted in the rich language
of the scriptures and hymns.

He would always stand up strongly in support of what he firmly believed in . Politically even though
he was a true Welshman , he leant towards the right , and he was a keen supporter of his friend Sir
Henry Morris Jones the MP.

The Three Twms.

Little Fat Twm never missed a soccer game at Parc Cannol field, and his answer to anyone who asked
him why he wasn’t following the team away from home was , “ Too far my boy , too far.”

Even though at his own admission he wasn’t much of a scholar or reader, one seldom saw him
without a newspaper under his arm. Tom’s main interest was horse racing , and he would study the
back page of the paper very carefully before making his choice, and making his way to the bookies’
office.

He possessed a lovely tenor voice , and his upbringing in Seion had provided him with an
inexhaustible collection of Methodist hymns . He laboured for years in the Cheese Factory in
Llandyrnog, and great was the merriment when the stout ladies who worked there turned him upside
down and threatened to dump him in the cheese. Even though he would become furious at the time,
Twm would never hold a grudge for long – anger was not part of his nature.

93
Twm was an old bachelor who lived with his sister in Maes y Dre , but at heart he was a child of the
street. He loved to talk about the characters of his childhood and as we know there is a great deal of
pleasure in doing that .

Twm was seldom seen without his little bitch Nip . More often than not he would use a piece of
binding rope as a leash , and Twm declared that Nip like himself understood very little English .

Despite his lack of worldly goods, he was quite happy with his world, and there was an unusual
gentleness in his nature. He was very self conscious , and was always unwilling to be in the limelight.

I can see him this very minute his rounded ruddy face full of determination and his short legs trotting
across Pwll y Grawys. He died quietly and quite unexpectedly while walking home one afternoon –
just as he would have wished in my estimation. Little Seion Chapel was full to capacity on the day of
his funeral , and the sound of singing was reverberating down the street after John Henry the Milk had
paid him a princely tribute.

Twm was the most amusing of the children of men , similar in that respect to Titch Myddleton and
Twm Reilly. Now there’s a threesome for you , even though as far as I know none of them were ever
close friends.

Twm Miltwn was employed at Gwasg Gee by all accounts, he was very mischievous and like to pull
tricks on those who were more sedate, like Isaac Jones and Pugh Davies. On occasion, he could raise a
fracas , but he always made sure that he was far enough away when the fists started flying. Yes he
was a good one for pushing the boat in to the water.

At first sight there was nothing special about Titch , and yet there was something distinct about him.
He possessed a small frail body and his back bent a little as if the whole problems of the world were
on his shoulders. As he spoke, he would hold his head to one side with the hint of a smile trembling
on his lips. He wore the same greasy cap daily , on Sunday , holiday and work day, and one seldom
saw him without his black overcoat which was inches too long for him.

The best story I heard about him was the one when he went one day on the train to Rhyl. There he
went to wet his lips in a pub opposite the station . From there , there was a mystery tour about to
start , and Titch decided to join it. Because it was a hot day , he fell into a deep sleep on the bus, and
within the hour , he woke up to discover to his surprise that he had arrived at Denbigh Castle. Titch
became very angry , and instead of accepting the situation and going home quietly , he chose to go on
the bus all the way back to Rhyl . There of course , he had to go to the station to buy a ticket to go
back home . To top it all , the hills of Vale Street and Smithfield confronted him . I believe that he was
rewarded a hundredfold what with repeating and embellishing the story .

94
He told me many a time that he attended Love Lane School the same time as my father , and it was
from him that I collected much information about my father’s boyhood.

Twm Reilly was a boaster without equal and as one would expect the story grew as he repeated it. He
wasn’t too fond of work , and for that reason he had his leg pulled without mercy , and strangely
enough by those who equally disliked work. One must remember that there were very few
opportunities during the depression of the 1920’s and 1930’s for ordinary people . Twm limited his
activities to poaching (when members of that fraternity would allow him to go with them) or fiddling
around in the Smithfield fair attempting to show that he was a bit of a cattle dealer . I never did hear
that he had been brought before the courts – when he saw a policeman he was as fearful as a mouse
under a cat’s paw.

If you had happened to be at Pwll y Grawys any afternoon in the 1930’s ,there on the big bench in
front of the Drill Hall you would see Twm Reilly with Ted y Glo, Seimon Rags and others of the
unemployed putting the world to right. I would have given the whole world just to listen in on their
conversation .

After tea, more often than not, and following local custom , Twm would sit on the step on the front of
his house in Panton Hall , greeting anyone who went by with ,” Hey have you got a fag?”

Like the mules of Old Giffy who couldn’t bear to pass the water trough at the bottom of Vale Street
and drinking from it , Twm couldn’t pass the Hand when there was a sixpenny piece burning in his
pocket . There , like a sheep yearning for its habitat , he would go in the evening to keep his pint warm
for as long as he could.

Not one of the three had their names on a book cover , nor their voices heard on the stage , but there
will be talk about them for at least another generation.

Lord Dunlop.

Here’s another of the town’s characters, better known by his nickname, Lord Dunlop than his real
name Gwilym Lloyd Roberts.

At the end of the Second World War , after he had served in the Air Force, he took advantage of the
opportunity to sell second hand furniture, which at the time were very difficult to come by. He
established his business on the lower floor of the Town Hall , and he succeeded beyond all
expectations. ‘Man about Town ‘ said once that he saw him stuffing paper money into the safe with
his foot!

95
If anybody was born to be an auctioneer , Dunlop with his ‘gift of the gab’ was that one. And such
was the demand for furniture by newly married couples , that a queue would form outside the Hall
even before the sale began.

He was like Bob Owen Croesor , a live wire , and he went briskly everywhere about his business , and
looking for bargains. And yet, he would never jump over the fence if there was an opening to be had
close by.

Clearly there were two sides to his personality , the pleasant companion , witty and a broad smile and
a hearty laugh to greet everybody , and a quiet individual , introverted with his head cast down when
the tide was against him.

At his best he had the ability to bring persuasion to the most stubborn, and to attune himself to the
same wavelength as the most headstrong . (?)

Generosity was a necessary part of his nature and came to the fore when he was comparatively well
off. If anyone needed help or money , he would oblige immediately without question. He hated every
sign of miserliness .

Dunlop more than anybody else was responsible for starting trips for the old and the infirm. A custom
that has continued until this day.

He was persuaded to offer himself as a candidate in the local elections, and as expected he came top
of the polls.

In 1946, Dunlop became captain of the local cricket club, and was therefore responsible for arranging
transportation for the team away from home. He overcame the problem of petrol rationing by
carrying all eleven players in the huge furniture van . I heard about him on his way home from Colwyn
Bay one Saturday night stopping the van outside the pub in Llanddulas , and ordering a pint of Guiness
for himself and ten half Shandies for the rest of the team. Quietly , and without anybody noticing he
disappeared from Denbigh - to Coventry someone said to become a bus driver!

In reality he was a child of nature – he flashed somehow across our screen like a shooting star.

But his name still remains on the lips of many of us.

Jac y Big.

He inherited the name ‘Big’ form his grandfathers , a name that stuck to him, and his numerous
descendants, closer than a jerkin throughout his life.

He was a tall man and dark of countenance with a pair of dark piercing eyes like shiny marbles
flashing beneath his thick brows, and a moustache hanging under his eagle like nose.

He looked quite surly , and at times was a bit of a hothead.

96
He wore a thin golden ring in his left ear, and this at a time when only gipsies and sailors dared do
such a thing.

Even though the passage of years had caught up with him and the fact that he was confined by
lameness brought on by rheumatism, he hadn’t slowed down sufficiently enough to be intimidated by
the children of Henllan Street. No boy dared get too close to him to antagonise him lest he should feel
the taste of his stick. With a perpetual frown on his face, even the elderly kept out of his way.

Like many others of his day , he was extremely limited in English – I never heard him utter a single
syllable from that language .

I can’t very well talk about Jac y Big without mentioning his closest friend – his greyhound. He was
one of the skinniest you had ever seen – a piece of rope was his leash , and we as children were
frightened for our lives lest he should set him free. I was amazed many a time at Jac’s control and
influence over him – one word or the movement of his little finger was sufficient for the dog to obey
his least command. He couldn’t bear to see an animal mistreated even though he himself lived
sumptuously on the pheasants and rabbits of local estates.

In his old age, he was employed as a night watchman at a time when council estates were being set up
at the top of the town . Tramps and other birds of the night like Seimon Rags and the odd poacher
would collect around his brazier to warm up or to make a cup of tea.

Indeed , he was a character from head to toe, completely independent from everything and
everybody, and therefore he was one that had long earned his patch of ground.

Eirwen.

Eirwen was a shopkeeper to the marrow of her bones , and she had spent her apprenticeship in Hugh
Thomas Davies’s shop on the High Street , before opening her own business on Bridge Street. It was
complete pleasure for her to be in the midst of fruit and vegetables, as if she were trying to become
one with her produce.

She wore a green overall at all times. I didn’t see Eirwen dressed in any other way , except once a year
. As sure as the day dawned, the day of Harvest Thanksgiving , Eirwen would be in the Baptist Chapel
for the 7 o’clock morning service , before making her way home to Brynffynnon Terrace for breakfast,
and rushing off to catch the train to attend the Chester Races.

Even though she was bound to her shop, often until the early hours of the morning , I’m pretty sure
that she enjoyed her chosen career. Certainly one of her chief characteristics was her total
commitment to her business . Her sister Glenys was a cut from the same fabric – she took care of the
other fruit shop opposite the Railway Pub.

97
There was never a better customer for Churchmans Cigarette Company than Eirwen. Seldom did one
see without a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth with an inch of dust trembling on it and
threatening to fall into the potatoes. In fact seeing her without a cigarette was seeing Pwll y Grawys
without the old cross.

The shelves of the shop window were a picture to behold , and enough to draw water from a pair of
false teeth. She would display her produce with customary care , and pity help us if we disturbed the
pyramids of fruit that she had so skillfully set up. But she is remembered most of all for making flower
bouquets , and she designed them to perfection. She would be on her feet for hours delicately shaping
each leaf into place, and it was a matter of pride for her to be praised for her work.

A moment to remember during the war was to discover after months of disappointment , on the
highest shelf by the door and far away from the sticky hands of many a rascal – a pile of little square
boxes, brown green and yellow in colour , and the word Sunpat in bold letters on them and containing
hundreds of raisins and each one covered in chocolate. I don’t know why but these were not
considered candies , and as a result coupons weren’t necessary to buy them. Fair play to Eirwen, after
moving sacks of potatoes or brushing the floor , she would give us a few packets.

Wit and humour were clearly written on her face , and often flowing out as she would add her rich
soprano voice to whatever song happened to be on the radio. Sometimes despite her large size , and
she being a skillful dance, she would without warning take hold of one of her customers ( a harmless
man more often than not ) and skillfully leading him between the sacks and the boxes. She had little
respect for society’s conventions , and the independent element in her nature and her tendency to
express her opinion fairly and squarely , pleasing or not , was an intrinsic part of her totally unique
personality.

Rev. Geraint Vaughan Jones.

He was a rather pompous man and completely conscious of his numerous gifts. His tendency most
often was to believe that he and no one else was right, and as a result he found it very difficult to get
along with other people. For this reason , one would have to accept him as he was. He could be very
humorous at times , but also very cutting. He was never afraid to express his opinion , and as far as I
know no one succeeded in persuading him to leave the path and opinion that he considered to be the
right one. The popular opinion was that he was a cold individual , analytical and judgemental , but to
be totally fair, he could be self critical while discussing his own work .

98
He was a fairly scholarly man, possessing a sharp mind , penetrating and clear.

He could speak many foreign languages including Spanish , German , French and Italian, and he was
pretty learned in the literature of many European countries.

From his home in Mytton Park , he would often visit 2 Dalar Wen , and I had the pleasure of tasting
some of his scholarship . Sometimes he would talk endlessly but at other times he could be very quiet
as if he had no inclination to talk with anybody.

He dressed soberly and sedately as one would expect a former Nonconformist minister to do, and his
gait somehow reflected his nature , purposeful and determined , with a tendency to press forward
with head down. He rarely wore a hat as if he were confident that his thick hair with a parting down
the middle would keep him comfortable.

He published many scholarly books on Theology , but after he moved to Denbigh in 1974 and having
passed the age of promise , he decided to write novels . To his great disappointment , he didn’t
believe that they had satisfied neither the reviewers or the readers , apart from his novel Morwenna.

The Welsh people of Denbigh were very much aware of the tension that existed between him and Dr
Kate Roberts , and that they couldn’t always get along .I would say that they were both very much like
each other, underlining the fact that two northerly poles of a magnet repelled each other.

I remember as if it were yesterday that unpleasant evening in the Welsh Society when he insulted ,
and totally without cause, a faithful and popular member. On another occasion when I was lecturing
and he was in the audience , he stood up in the middle of the lecture to disagree on a matter of local
history . And even though he was proven to be completely incorrect on the spot , he wouldn’t accept
being corrected. He was never afraid to express his opinion , even though that was not to everybody’s
liking, with the result that he would sometimes be bitterly criticised. But there you are, he never
intended to be anybody other than himself.

If you would like to know how Mathonwy Hughes and myself deceived him one unforgettable
afternoon , buy a copy and read ‘Cofio Mathonwy .’

He died in 1997 at the age of 93 , and his mind was as clear as crystal right to the end. Certainly his
energy was inexhaustible , despite his rheumatism which pained him terribly , and nearly right to the
end , he struggled to write, and also to wander the most level streets of the town as much as he could.

On the day of his funeral in Denbigh , the Rev Cynwil Williams and W. H. Pritchard agreed that neither
of them had ever seen a man so knowledgeable throughout the years of their ministries, than Geraint
Vaughan Jones.

99
J.J.

It is John Jones Evans that’s written on his gravestone in the Town’s public cemetery , where he lies
close to his fellow workers – Thomas Gee and his son Hywel , J. Lloyd Williams, the first editor of the
North Wales Times, Robert Williams , manager of the business who saw over sixty years in the
workplace and the Rev Robert Griffiths , former editor of Y Faner – but it is as J.J that he was known
by thousands in Wales and across Offa’s Dyke.

After crossing the threshold of Gee’s Office in November 1886, he developed into a skilful journalist ,
in addition to being a private secretary to Thomas Gee. Earlier , he had been appointed as editor of Y
Faner and the North Wales Times. He was regarded as the ‘father of the staff’ in the office , and he
was extremely caring towards the young men there. The late chief bard Dafydd Owen , who had
worked for a time under J.J. said that he was a ‘tonic of a man!’ He was a quarryman from the vicinity
of Llanberis , and he could be just as relaxed in the midst of ordinary labourers as in the company of a
meeting of scholars.

His Welsh was rich , clean and totally natural , with the taste of his background penetrating through it.
The readers of Y Faner at the time testified that there wasn’t a more entertaining writer to be had
than J.J across the whole of Wales. And reading his reports and articles in past copies of Y Faner is
testimony to this. As surely as there was water in the Ystrad River , journalism was in his blood.

Unfortunately, many of his talents were buried in the columns of Y Faner , and it is a shame,
considering his experience and his ability that he hadn’t published an autobiography – best seller I’d
say. He did as much as anybody to promote a love and respect for the Welsh Language and the
traditions of Wales .

He devoted himself to learning short hand when he was quite young and he could follow the
speediest speaker word for word without much trouble. In turn , he taught John Wesley Evans, Dei
Edward Roberts and others to master the craft.

As a bonus for his inherent talents, he had a fantastic memory , and he could remember the names of
the bereaved in a funeral or the winners at an Eisteddfod without using a pencil or paper.

Even though he was an excellent reporter and writer, he was at his best when he was narrating a story
– he could imitate the greats of his day as well as local characters , and one seldom saw him without a
number of listeners collecting around him enjoying the fun. There is no doubt that J.J. had been
abundantly blessed with wit , as everyone who had the privilege of his company be it at the office , on
the street , in the pub would testify – Thomas Gee, T. Gwynn Jones, D.E Jenkins as well as Hoi polloi
were his willing audience. As Dafydd Owen said about him in his autobiography , while referring to
assistant preachers that often called to announce in the local paper where they had been preaching
the previous Sunday , “Dafydd Bach, don’t some people turn in a small circle – like lump of dirt in a
pot! “

100
Yes he was born a conversationalist , and he loved to associate with the Jolly Boys of Denbigh who
were accustomed to wandering throughout North Wales in a ‘siarabang’ ? claiming that they were
visiting places of historical interest or the Liberal Club , where he is listed as a fine billiards player.

J.J. always wore black as it became a professional person , with a bowler hat on his head. And talking
about bowler hats, only Dafydd Williams ( the father of Luned and Gwen Williams the Wool Shop ) ,
William Davies, Beacon’s Hill ( he was responsible for the copper plate writing on the legal documents
at Swayne’s office ) , the Roberts brothers from the Lumber Yard , and my grandfather John Morris
Owen would wear a bowler daily.

J.J had the taste of listening to sermons in the Capel Mawr , sermons of people like Mathews Ewenni ,
Dr Owen Thomas and Dr Heber Evans . He was enlightened in his Bible and a keen debater on
scriptural subjects. One has to remember that Thomas Gee was quite puritanical in his attitude
towards life, and even thought J.J didn’t go along with this , he understood the old man perfectly. He
could follow his own course and enjoy company without troubling the establishment. As Gwilym R.
said , “ The notable sinners and the droll men .”

He must have written hundreds of letters on behalf of ordinary people , and his kindness to the poor
of the town was inexhaustible . Everybody testified to the gentlemanly way he dealt with even the
least notable of his acquaintances.

How can we measure his influence on a community like Denbigh over such a long period? I heard once
that only the chosen ones are remembered according to the first letters of their names – J.R. ( y Blaid )
J.H. ( Capel Mawr ) , D.J. ( Williams ) , R.S. ( Thomas ) , S.R. ( Llanbryn – mair ) , and O.M. ( Edwards ) .
J.J. certainly deserves his place in their midst.

Edwin Roberts.

In the television series ‘Last of the Summer Wine ‘ , there is a rather droll fidgety short sighted
character who appears from time to time . Give him a little moustache with a trilby hat instead of a
flat cap and there you have a fairly close portrayal of the unique head in the wind character known till
his death in the 1950’s as Iesu Grist Bach. He wandered around Denbigh and the villages close by
selling buttons , pins , needles, cotton reels and so forth, and even though he was never really
successful , he managed to make ends meet.

101
He was an ardent Independent throughout his life , and true to the cause on Tower Hill. And even
though he wasn’t blessed with any exceptional talent, he was always ready in a prayer meeting to
respond to the invitation to take part. Seeing Iesu Grist Bach – and there was no disrespect intended
in the name , praying in the set fawr was thrilling to say the least. He knelt humbly on his knees , and
with the tears rolling down his cheeks, he pleaded passionately for God to forgive his numerous sins.
Sometimes , he would flail his arms like a windmill as if he were emphasising his needs for
forgiveness. As far as I know, poor Edwin Roberts never sinned any more than anyone else.

He was rather short , and very fond of singing , even though for the life of him , he couldn’t keep in
tune . Even so , he was the song leader in Tower Hill.

His wife , Mrs M.S. as everybody addressed her , was in complete contrast to him. She too at times
would write to Y Faner , and she had won second place in the Eisteddfod towards the beginning of the
20th century , for a novel – Yr Adar Diarth – and I have a copy of it here in the study. Edwin Roberts
knew that she was the one with the ability , and he was completely happy with that. And the
partnership was an ideal one. He never intended to be anyone else except himself . As Sir Thomas
Parry said , “ there’s the character , no less the man. “

With a slight smile under his moustache, he went about his things without ever infringing on
anybody’s life . He delighted in the company of his acquaintances , but chose to avoid the company of
many a rascal . His desire was to be a respectable man in the company of others of his own kind. In his
own way, he was very sure of his situation , but sometimes his concerns about the little things of the
world would upset him.

Even though he had no particular ability , one has to list him as one of the Denbigh characters – one of
the little stones in the wall , but a necessary part of its structure.

Jack Roberts or Jac y Cambrian.

He was so named because he was responsible for delivering the Cambrian Company lemonade to the
shops and pubs of the locality.

He was a professional gardener by occupation , and in the 1930’s he was responsible for Plas Clough
gardens .

In his leisure time, if he wasn’t in his garden in Bryn-Teg , he was sure to be in the company of Harri
Elis the ‘gas’ doing some voluntary work. Both worked very hard during the war to raise money for
good causes , and especially with the fund to welcome soldiers returning home.

102
He took a leading part with Wil, Evan Jones Shop, and Stephen Jones father of the Rev Meirion Davies
in the organisational meetings for the Denbigh Flower Show. By all accounts, Jack was the fluid capital
of the committee.

Jac y Cambrian was a round stump of a man , with his ruddy face and broad smile reflecting the
merriment that gushed out of him.

He was always in a hurry – with hardly any time to discuss the day’s events – and as a result often
sweating profusely. He had a tendency to see the funny side of a most serious situation , and
possessed the ability to promote some optimism in others. Everybody delighted in his company
because he was so lively and funny.

He seldom went away on holidays – he was satisfied with being home with his family and
acquaintances .

Towards the end, even though the body obviously was getting weaker, his spirit and attitude towards
life was as mirthful as ever. I hope by now that he has forgiven me ( and my likes ) for stealing an
occasional lemonade bottle from his wagon , and selling it to one of the shops in town for a penny.

John Henry Jones or John Henry the Milk.

He was the son of Mr and Mrs David Jones, Pennant Farm, and in that respect he was one of the true
children of the Street. He married Mair , Lôn Pendref who is still with us today.

Seion Chapel or Capel Bach , as everybody called it , was the hub of John Henry’s life . He was in his
element with Chapel business and indeed he took care of his family very much like a hen taking care
of its chicks.

I cannot improve upon one syllable of the Rev Cynwil Williams’s tribute to him in Y Gadlas .

One thing which remains indelible in my memory is that when he was on his yearly holidays with Mair
in Anglesey , they travelled all the way home by train and bus for Sunday , to make sure that
everything was ready in preparation for the service in Seion, before returning the same day to the
Island. That is what you call loyalty.

Everybody agreed that he had a particular gift to speak publicly ( from the chest ) , and his many
tributes to deceased members were a pattern of artistry and refinement . It was a great pleasure to
listen to his valuable contributions to the discussions in the Welsh Society.

With his long and close connection with the Street , he could trace the complicated ancestry of various
families without difficulty , and he had an endless store of stories about characters who lived there.
John Henry delighted in their antics and troubles – what a shame he didn’t consign them to memory
and keep them so that the present age could enjoy them.

103
We all knew that one could rely completely on his word , his honour and his accuracy. He was always
completely clear in his vision and wise in his opinion. Many of the poor and the unfortunates of
Denbigh benefited from his generosity, even though as a total abstainer , he was never happy to see
one red penny crossing the counter at The Hand.

He worked conscientiously in his chapel , and in his work as a milkman , and unfortunately the pattern
from which he was moulded has now been broken in pieces.

R.W.Roberts or Bob Wil.

R.W. Roberts or Bob Wil to his acquaintances – father of Arwyn the undertaker.

Here is one of the splendid inhabitants of Earth . At first glance , he was a pick and shovel man with
his shapeless trilby hat on the back of his head and his dusty overalls covered in holes.

Bob Wil’s most notable virtue was his cheerfulness – I never heard him complaining even when things
were going contrary . I will never forget the occasion when he had to break my mother’s front door
window because she had locked herself out of the house – for the third time. Unfortunately , the
poem he composed after he had set a new window pane has long been forgotten. However , I do
remember clearly that Bob Wil never charged a halfpenny for the work he did .

His passionate love for Wales and the language was obvious , and his rich Welsh with the taste of his
background in the Rhiw penetrating it. As one would expect he was a gifted and natural ‘englynwr’ ,
and one could almost say that he was talking in cynghanedd. He didn’t like any kind of publicity , but
while he competed , as indeed he would in the poets’ forums , he developed a kind of confidence
which brought him to the forefront of the contest.

Bob Wil possessed a lively mind and always ready with his conversation . At times, a flash of his
genius and innate humour would sometimes reveal itself in his witty observations.

What will become of us as a nation I wonder , without these type of people – Bob Wil , Rev Tom
Thomas , Bob Huws the Smith, John Henry the milk , Ted ( Robert Owen ) , Gwilym Lloyd the wood
yard , and Ifor Roberts the carpenter – men of ordinary upbringing but each one a giant.

104
The Ladies of the Town.

Perhaps some of you are accusing me of ignoring characters form among the fair sex. The plain fact is
that only a few of them come to my memory . I spoke earlier about Eirwen the fruit shop , and there
are others like Siarabang Lis, Martha Drafferthus and Wlannen Fach , and I will refer to them when I
talk about the nicknames of the town. What about Mrs Hughes Ysbrydion ( 1872 – 1912 ) who lived in
60 Vale Street, Mair and Mathonwy Hughes’s old home ? I knew she was a loyal member of Y
Temlwyr Da ( Good Templers ) and perhaps she was the one that was responsible for the words above
the fireplace in the big room , “ Without God, Without Anything. God and Plenty .” There was a
strong tradition in Denbigh that her ghost was still wandering the house after her death . Mair firmly
believed in the story , and said that she had seen the old lady many times!

Back we go to the men . I will have to draw your attention once more to Owen Evans ( 1854 – 1921 ) ,
Ty Capel y Capel Mawr. His roots were set in Denbigh and it was about Denbigh that he applied his
abilities and skills . Because he had so much respect towards the notables of his locality , small
wonder that he had paid deserving tributes to them. He gave us ‘Dinbych yn ei hynafiaeth a’i
henwogion ‘ ( The Antiquities and Famous People of Denbigh ) , in addition to several articles in the
‘Cymru Coch ‘ – O.M Edwards’s popular periodical published between 1891 and 1927 . Owen Evans
was totally consumed by his love of local history , and certainly some of his pearls on the ‘ Hen
Gymeriadau Dinbych ‘ ( Old Characters of Denbigh ) from the 19th Century certainly deserve to be
republished. For the sake of convenience I changed a little of the orthography and syntax of the
original presentation

Old Characters of Denbigh by Owen Evans.

Years ago there were very many amazing characters in this town , and they played their part on the
world stage, but by today there is only their memory. They were completely innocent characters , and
they lacked the intellectual ability necessary to discuss world affairs. They didn’t care much for work ,
but they were quite prepared to be a servant to anybody for a short time for a wage that was paid
into their hands. They weren’t bright enough to support themselves , but smart enough not to work
for free to anyone.

One of the first ones I remember was Llywelyn Bland .He was a man of normal stature dressed in
black clothes, with a tall hat on his head. It was pretty obvious that the clothes and the hat had seen
better days , and had you seen Llywelyn for the first time , you would think that he was their original
owner. He went about so busily as if the town was totally dependent on his movements, and
therefore there is no reason to list him in that respectable class referred to as ‘loafers’. His main work
was carrying water from Ffynnon Goblin ( Goblin Well ) and making a few small errands. He rarely
took note of anybody , but he had a profound conversation with others like him from a wordly point
of view. He was a church goer according to his religious beliefs and it was that denomination that
captured his attention on Sunday, and he busied himself carrying bundles of the Book of Common
Prayer from one church to another , and he also pumped the organ.

105
Another old and original character was Charles Roberts. He was better known by his name Charles y
Blacin. Even though he was born in Denbigh , he would be continuously wandering from one years
end to the next, but paying visits to his home on special occasions. He was a stumpy individual ,
always dressed in a long black frock coat and trousers of the same material , and a soft hat on his
head and the brim like eaves over his eyes. Even though there was a polished look about Charles’s
face ( yr oedd rhyngddo dipyn a llenwi ei ddillad ) ?? He would have a small box under his armpit ,
hanging by a string over his shoulders , and it a stock of blacking and matches. His head would always
seem to be shaking and he looked as if he were wondering and making decisions which he had no
intention of carrying out. If anybody should ask him how he was , his ready answer would be , “ Iawn
macan I” ( Fine my boy ). Because he couldn’t speak clearly , he never bothered to say the words
completely. He was completely independent in his ways , and he seldom offered his blacking and
matches to anybody , but he knew where to get a tasty meal in its shadow. He was smart enough to
know that nobody should take more notice of him than anyone else, and he wasn’t beyond using his
stick with cheeky children and he would ask slyly while bending his head , “ Be isio was?” ( What do
you want boy ? )

He was a hopeless hawker , he would wait patiently for people to buy his blacking , and he wouldn’t
be the least upset if people passed him by without even looking at his precious wares. His favourite
haunts were the local mansions about the town ; he knew that he would receive something to eat
there without his stock getting any less.

Wherever Charles might be on his travels, he would be certain to head for home on Ascension Day .
On that day , in a parish about three miles from Denbigh ( Llanefydd according to the testimony ) the
National Savings Society would be marching with a volunteer brass band at the forefront . Charles
knew that at the end of the march there would be a good dinner at the Kings’ Head , and that he
would be invited to come in for part of or the remainder of the meal, and they would also ply him
with drink , so that by the time he would turn for home Charles would feel quite the boy.

He was a cumbersome walker, and from a distance he looked like a ship in a storm swaying from side
to side. He amused himself by mumbling , and looking very happy and his face was like a turkey comb;
if anybody were to say a cross word to him , he would be thrown off his axel immediately and he
would shout and mangle sentences non stop.

When he returned home, he would spend Sunday with the Wesleyans at Pendref . It was easy to
recognise the sound of Charles coming to Chapel – he wouldn’t avoid tapping his stick on the floor –
and like any other gentleman he would sit every time in the gallery. He would also go to Sunday
School , and although he attended the men’s class he would be given an ABC book inside his
Testament so as not to reveal to anyone that he probably couldn’t read .

106